Marvel Vignettes: Wolverine
by SilverWolf742
Summary: Second in a series of short stories about characters in the Marvel Universe. Logan struggles to come to terms with his past.


In his nightmares, Logan was drowning. His mind was foggy, his senses dulled and muted. Attempts at forming coherent thoughts failed him, and every time he tried the haze threatened to suffocate him. There was enough sedative in his bloodstream to knock out a bull elephant, but even that wasn't enough to render him completely unconscious. Even as he floated like a pickled fetus, entirely nude, in an upright tube of translucent, lurid green liquid, he was dimly aware of his body fervently burning through the toxin that tried to subdue him. And beneath that, deep within his core, he was mindful that he was being held against his will, and his fury bubbled insidiously like a volcano whose dormancy would soon come to a violent end.

The solution in which he was submersed was disturbed by vibration, and the cascade of frothy bubbles that ensued only served to further confuse him. A shrill whirring reached his fluid filled ears, and he watched uncomprehendingly through heavy lidded eyes as tapered silver drills, their points glinting sharp and menacing, steadily inched toward him from all directions in a manner not unlike a modern day iron maiden. The practically unconscious association with a torture device should have triggered warning bells. But the haze of his mind discarded the thought as quickly as it was formed. Several drills made contact with his biceps, his abdomen, his legs, and with unrelenting steadfastness, they penetrated the first layer of his skin. Scarlet bloomed into the liquid. Another set of drills touched his temples, and his head vibrated as they penetrated the thin layer of skin before boring into his skull. The blood stained the water, as more drills joined the first, passing through skin, severing muscle beneath. His nerves sent shockwaves that hammered against his drug addled brain. The signals broke through, slamming against the pain centers and beating aside the fog of sedation. Then Logan began to scream, soundlessly, as the liquid funneled down his throat.

* * *

"Arghh!" Wolverine shouted, shooting bolt upright, foot long adamantium claws unsheathing with a sharp _snikt. _His chest heaved, straining against the confines of the threadbare leather jacket that represented the only meager barrier between him and the bitter cold of Canadian wilderness on a January night. His breaths condensed into wispy clouds as they hit the still, frigid air.

"Ah, Christ," he growled, irritated with himself at having yet another outburst, unwitnessed as it was. _Like a kid afraid of the dark. _He shook his head. He knew the stuff of his nightmares was enough to make the hardest of men flinch. That didn't make him any less ashamed of them. With everything he had experienced, Wolverine thought he should be above the trivialities of things like night terrors.

He took in the orange glow of his camp fire, which had died down to little more than smoldering embers. Logan wasn't the most social of creatures. Daily interactions with people, even if they were the mutants that represented the closest thing he had to family, were emotionally draining. So when he walked out the door of the Institute saying little more than "Taking the bike, back in a few days," Professor Xavier didn't even question him. Besides, the man could read his thoughts plainer than he could read the newspaper that lay open next to his morning coffee.

Wolverine regarded his still extended claws with dim fascination, the reflection of the flames dancing across the polished adamantium. With their metal coating, the claws were triangular in cross section, the perfect geometry betraying their artificiality. But as it happened, the new shape created three keen cutting edges that his natural bone claws had lacked. Logan doubted this was unintentional. Each claw tapered to a small, razor sharp point which, to his knowledge, had not dulled in the slightest since they were forged. It was not for lack of use. Attempting to determine just how many had been slain by his merciless claws was a path to insanity, and Logan was already far enough down that road to want to take a shortcut. He supposed the number didn't matter when he could still see each and every one their faces with grotesque lucidity, that clarity in their eyes at the precise moment when they realized that they were not long for this world. He snorted. Funny, how his mind thought it prudent to preserve those faces, but scattered his memories of the past like dandelion seeds in the wind.

Deep within his forearms, three ligaments that did not exist in a normal human body contracted and allowed the claws to slide back into their housings. The sensation was strange; he imagined it always would be. As the points retreated beyond the skin between his knuckles, the triangular holes left behind itched and drew themselves together seamlessly, leaving no sign of previous injury other than a bit of coagulated blood.

Weapons. That's what the claws were. Even before the unbreakable alloy was bonded to them, they were weapons. What else could their use be? Not particularly useful for cutting in the practical sense, too large to be used as some primitive utensil, and if they were intended for climbing they would have been at the tips of his fingers (not that he hadn't used them to climb, but it wasn't efficient). He laughed to himself. It was a gruff, humorless sound devoid of any real feeling. If there was a God, he thought, he had a strange sense of humor. _Thou shalt not kill_, was what the commandment said. Yet, through some trick of fate he had been born with blades in his arms whose only purpose, as far as he could see it, was to kill. Seems God was setting him up to fail. He laughed again at that, thankful that he was not a God-fearing man.

Wolverine sniffed, the wind bringing a new scent to his sensitive nose. He lifted his head and peered into the conifers, their dark trunks standing out in stark contrast to the abundant snow. Two eyes like hot coals eyed him warily. A timber wolf stood just outside the halo of light cast by the fire, its head low, betrayed only by the flames reflecting eerily white against the backs of its eyes. Had Logan's night vision not been so acute, the wolf would have been all but invisible. It was unusual for a wolf to come so close to a fire. But even with its thick, insulating fur, it was clear that it had gone many a night without a successful kill. Logan had fought in too many wars to not recognize desperation when he saw it. Whether in a canine face or a man's, the look was the same.

They said that staring in the eyes of a wolf was a challenge. Perhaps it was for that reason alone that Wolverine met its eyes without hesitation; he was never one to turn down a challenge. The wolf's upper lip curled, revealed sharp canines that gleamed in the darkness, clearly displeased that it had been discovered. Wolverine contorted his face into a uncannily similar expression, his canines unusually sharp for a human, and gave it the human version of a wolf's growl. The wolf was taken aback, and ceased baring its fangs as quickly as it had begun, undoubtedly thinking that this man was not prey, and to pursue him further would cost it far more than it bargained for. Almost reluctantly, it turned tail and retreated back into still darkness.

He smiled with grim satisfaction as the wolf fled, musing silently at the simplicity of its existence. The wolf knew not of morality. It lived by the laws of predator and prey, kill or be killed, and owed its fealty only to the gods of pain and hunger to which all living creatures bowed. It was born with teeth in its maw and claws in its feet and the cunning to know how to use them. But yet, it did not kill without purpose. Did that make this wolf, this worshipper of primitive gods, more moral than he? He, who had killed out of necessity, but also out of vengeance.

'_Self-pity does not suit you, Logan.' _

Wolverine didn't bother turning his head in search of the sound. Charles Xavier had been in his head often enough that he immediately knew he had not heard his voice with his ears. Nonetheless, he had not been expecting it, and it jarred him. It felt acutely invasive to have someone privy to your thoughts. The Professor was well aware of his feelings, so Logan knew he would have only contacted him if it was necessary.

"Cell phones not your style, huh?" Logan said out loud, though he knew the Professor would hear it. "And I wasn't—"

'_Wallowing in self-pity?'_ The voice reverberated inside his skull.

" 'Wallowing' isn't quite the word I would use for it."

'_You were measuring your self-worth against a wolf_,' he noted matter-of-factly. _Well, that much was true, _he had to admit. He was sure the Professor heard his admission loud and clear.

"I'm going to guess you didn't contact me just to give me a lecture," Logan said, still doggedly refusing to communicate without physical speech.

'_That would be a correct assumption. The Brotherhood is at their old games. We need you back as soon as possible.' _

"Gotcha, Doc," he said without argument. He found that he was grateful for his sojourn through the wilderness being cut short. In fact, it might be healthier if had something to do besides sit around convincing himself that he was little more than killing machine.

He supposed that if he was on a path to redemption, being needed was a good place to start.


End file.
